The Artist Is Present
by let'sgetthoughtful
Summary: Just hot nonsense. Artist Eric and indie DJ Sookie are comfortable roommates, but everything changes when they share an unexpected afternoon... AU, OC, AH. Rated M for language and explicit hotness. ;)
1. Chapter 1

A/N: _A long time ago I had a teacher who used to say you could take any cliché and make it real by adding enough of the right kind of details. This is probably not what he had in mind. ;) All human, all lemons, all the time._

**The Artist Is Present**

Eric was originally my brother's friend, and we came to be roommates in an offhanded way. His lease was ending, my roommate had moved, Jason made the casual comment to a mutual acquaintance, and there we were. At first, we kept to ourselves. While we had grown closer over the past few weeks—he would eat cereal in the living room while I was watching TV, I would join Eric when he worked at the kitchen table instead of his drafting desk, etc.—there was too much tension between us to really be friends.

It started with a night at the beach, six months earlier. I was out with Jason's friend group. Flecks from the bonfire drifted through the evening air, and the alcohol was flowing. A cute girl I didn't know was teasing Jason that he was the most jealous older brother she'd ever seen, and bet him $20 that he couldn't watch someone kiss his sister without punching him in the face. I was not keen on the wager, but the group was loud, and had already begun nominating an annoying, barrel-chested guy named Mark to do it. Eric happened to be sitting next to me. Although I didn't know him well—at that point, he was just Jason's hot art school friend—he sensed my discomfort.

We both knew the group wouldn't let up until there was some action, and Eric grimaced in empathy. Suddenly an idea occurred. He looked around to make sure everyone was still occupied, and then cocked an eyebrow at me.

"What do you think?" Guessing what he was getting at, I returned his mischievous smile.

"Why not?"

Before I could over-analyze it, Eric leaned in and softly closed his lips over mine. He did not embrace me, although I knew he had it in him (at another party, I had seen him handle a girl so thoroughly my entire body flushed at the memory). Rather, his hand found mine in the sand, and twined our fingers together. I wasn't prepared for the kindness of it.

It took the group a minute to realize what was happening, but once they did, the beach erupted in laughs and catcalls. Jason's surprise overwhelmed his fury as Eric pulled away and flashed him a cocky smile. He just rolled his eyes and sighed, "Hilarious, Eric." I laughed, demanding the girl pay up. The event was over.

But then, Eric turned back to me. Just for a second. His hair glowed gold in the firelight, blue eyes brighter than normal, maybe even hopeful. He gave my hand a squeeze.

That was it. A minute later, he went off with a few friends to swim in the waves, another guy sat down next to me, and the evening continued. At the end of the night, though, when I washed the smoke out of my hair and the tar off my feet, I could still feel his fingers between mine.

The memory didn't haunt me so much as never leave. It wasn't that no one paid attention to me, either—I had several dates since then, including a pleasant guy I worked with at the radio station who wanted to get serious. I shied away from all of them, though; I couldn't get that night with Eric out of my head. It didn't help that I saw him every day now, obsessing over every little interaction.

I learned a lot about Eric's art as a byproduct. When I first met him, I assumed he must have been some kind of poseur—no one as good looking as Eric was required to be very talented—but he was damn good. He had a methodical temperament and a sharp worldview. Whether ad campaigns or concept art, his work always contained a critique, confident and understated and wry, just like Eric. One of his paintings hung in the common space of our apartment: a gray cityscape of chaotic streets and faceless, downcast strangers. In the far corner stood a child holding a yellow balloon, staring into the sky. Eric thought it was too obvious—in fact, I had to save it from getting tossed in the closet along with his other rejects—but I thought it was beautiful.

Whether he intended it or not, his art practice gave Eric an edge—a mix of careless and observant, rigid and cool. The heel of his right hand was constantly stained with ink, and no matter what he was wearing, there was at least one streak of paint on it somewhere. I made a joke about it once, and now he would pause for inspection before going out, an interactive Where's Waldo puzzle. After finding the paint—which was inevitable—I would fix him as best I could and send him on his way, saying, "The artist is presentable," an in-joke about Marina Abramović that I thought was much funnier than he did.

After a few weeks of this ritual, the day came when I couldn't find a thing. Eric always looked personally flawless—tall and lean and striking—but that evening, the clothes finally matched. He was set to go on a big date, so I assumed he'd put more thought into it than usual. I checked again. Not a pencil smudge, not a drop of bleach, nothing. I redoubled my efforts. He was smirking, thinking he'd finally put together the perfect ensemble, when I spotted it—a faint blue line striped across his neck behind his right ear. It didn't exactly count since it wasn't on clothing, but he groaned in good humor anyway. I laughed and licked my finger to rub it off; he leaned down so I could reach.

When I touched him, though, something changed. This was the closest I had been to him since the night at the bonfire, and I could feel the heat between us as I worked the paint away. My hand lingered on his neck. He was staring down at me with a curious expression—penetrating and charged, with that same little spark of hope.

It lasted less than a second. Almost immediately, he pulled away to give me a playful high-five, all traces of the previous moment gone. Though I smiled back, I secretly willed the date to go poorly. I was pleased when Eric returned home by himself before 12am.

That night was difficult. I lay awake in bed, the memory of my hand on him sending chills up my arm and into the rest of me.

The next day finally came. It was late Saturday afternoon, and the sun was filtering into my room hazy and thick. Eric was out at an art show, and I was finally alone. Nick Cave's latest album was playing, and I was resting in the center of my bed—eyes closed, vibrator out, a hand down my jeans. I pictured myself on top, looking down into Eric's face. I let out a long, gratified sigh.

"_Holy shit,_" came a soft whisper from the doorway.

My eyes flew open as if the words had been screamed. Eric was there, braced in the wide-open doorframe, like a fantasy, except that he wasn't. My hand stilled instantly.

Eric's expression was conflicted—apprehensive, apologetic, filled with want. "The show was canceled." He looked me over: face flushed, vibrator ready. He waited a beat.

"Sookie."

I blinked, totally frozen; his face was unreadable.

"I…I don't want you to stop."

Desire poured into me, flooding my limbs. The effect was almost paralyzing. I looked at Eric. His chest rose and fell unevenly as he ran a hand through his hair. His worn, black The Smiths t-shirt (my God, as if I wasn't turned on enough already—The fucking SMITHS!) had ridden up on one side, exposing a strip of skin. I noticed a maroon semi-circle of paint on the underside of his forearm…

I started to move.

Though I expected to feel self-conscious, I didn't. Eric was focused totally on me, drinking me in. After a moment, he walked to the edge of the bed and sat. He didn't touch me—he just watched, eyes dark and heated.

"Show me," he said quietly. Though the command was cryptic, I nodded, removing my shirt and jeans until I was left in my underwear. He seemed mesmerized, scanning my body up and down. His eyes flicked to the vibrator and then back to my face.

I finally spoke. I said the only thing that came to mind.

"Whatever you want to do, I want you to do it."

He looked startled at the sentiment, as if not quite sure he believed me.

"You don't know what you're getting into," he whispered. My chest flushed with color.

He still did not touch me directly. He merely picked up the vibrator and turned it on, laying it against the black lace directly over my center. I gasped, my body seized with the shock of it. Seeing how I responded, he pulled it away, slowing the speed and moving it so the length rested lower—gentler, more diffuse. It was genius.

After just a few seconds, my hips were moving in rhythm, pleasure coursing through me. His eyes ran over me with an artist's sense of appraisal. Just as I was about to peak, he picked up the vibrator again and brought it to my mouth. My body throbbed uncontrollably as my lips closed over it, eyes wide, overwhelmed with want. It was the first time his focus faltered since he sat down.

"Damn, Stackhouse," he exhaled incredulously.

His fingers, still wrapped around the vibrator, reached down and found mine, giving me partial control. He ran his other hand down my body and gently pulled back my underwear. His breath caught in his throat. Looking into his eyes, I slowly worked it in.

"Yes," he muttered, grasping me to him before his lips crashed into mine.

After all his restraint, the action felt frenzied, like he was trying to suck me down into him, to swallow me completely. I gasped, buzzing with desire, as he tongued his way down my neck, hands still entwined around the vibrator, awakening every edge of my desire.

This was not how I pictured us together. This was hotter.

I reached for him, to bring him closer, to replace the vibrator with his erection. I tried to claw my way, one-handed, through the buttons on his jeans. He pulled back from the kiss and shifted slightly away.

"Not yet," he said. "I have to see you."

I was almost whimpering with need now, and he responded by unfastening my bra. He gazed at my breasts for a long time without touching them, utterly absorbed, before running a thumb up and over my nipple.

"Fuck me," he breathed to himself.

"I want to," I gasped.

It set him off.

"You will," he asserted, fire in his eyes, ripping my underwear the rest of the way down my legs. He wrapped my body in a soul-crushing kiss. This was the Eric I was waiting for, the one I had been dreaming about—consumed by lust, aware of his magnetism, his big dick, his pull over women, who wasn't afraid to use every last bit.

On a mission now, he increased the speed of the vibrator, relinquishing control of it to me, palming my ass with one hand while making fast, wet circles up high with the other. I began to pant in desperation. He was everywhere, the pleasure white-hot and consuming. I stared at him in wonder and accusal.

"How are you so good at this?!"

His eyes twinkled. "My mother says I have the gift of observation."

"I don't want to hear about your mother right now," I grit out, despite myself. He merely smiled and increased the pressure.

And suddenly my body couldn't take it anymore. I came without warning, crying out with the sensation, my arms locked around his neck. I slumped against him. He let me rest on him for a long while, his fingers stirring my hair.

Eventually Eric spoke.

"Was this what you had planned for this afternoon?"

"More or less," I grinned. "You?"

"Not in the least," he laughed. His eyes raked over me again. "_So _much better." He tucked me into him, still fully clothed. It felt delicious.

"What were you thinking about?" he asked.

"When?"

"Before I came in. I'm still sorry about that, by the way."

"Well, _I'm _not." He waited—the joke had not diffused the question. "This," I said, rubbing my ass against his erection. His chest rumbled in satisfaction. "You," I answered more truthfully. At first, he didn't respond; he just drew me closer.

"Do you do that a lot?"

"Yes." He exhaled, his palms flexing against my hips. I felt suddenly shy. "Do you ever…think about me?" He ran his nose against the back of my neck, sending shivers down my spine.

"Every fucking day. Haven't you noticed?" He pressed his length against me deliberately. "When you check me over before I go out, I fantasize that you ask me to strip. I imagine you licking paint off my nipple, scrubbing down every part of me."

His words made me so hot I had to defuse the tension. "Dude—haven't you ever read a warning label?"

"Just shut up and go with it," he muttered, twisting me in his arms, crushing his mouth to mine. After a minute, though, he pulled back and asked in fierce sincerity, "Do you really want this, Sookie? Do you want me?" The question stunned me.

"Ever since the bonfire. It hasn't let up for a second. …you?"

Eric's eyes flashed as he brought my hand to his cock. "Hardest I've ever been." I flexed my fingers around him. "Take me out and fuck me," he groaned, outrageously seductive. Although I wanted to, a chill ran up my spine—I would do anything he asked if he said it like that. A look of recognition passed over his face. "No. No, you said it better. 'Whatever you want to do, I want you to do it.'"

Yes.

I feverishly ripped his t-shirt over his head, running my fingers down his taut stomach. There was a faint white blotch of paint on his hipbone, and I thumbed the mark roughly, unbuttoning his jeans, yanking them quickly down his legs.

His cock was unbelievable. Thick and hard and upward curving. I took him into my mouth immediately. He exhaled sharply, almost with a laugh.

"You feel soooo good," he mumbled, falling back against the bed. He threw his arms over his head as if embarrassed, as though he didn't know what to do with them. I didn't understand the change at first, but then it fell into place—Eric was more comfortable giving pleasure than receiving it. I was fairly confident I knew how to change that.

Visual artist, visual lover.

"Open your eyes. Watch." Eric obeyed. His eyes shot open with an intensity so piercing I was surprised I didn't burst into flames. My mouth descended back over him.

"Oh fuck," he exclaimed, twining his fingers in my hair. He tilted up into me over and over again, no longer self-conscious about taking what he wanted. Watching him was almost too much. It overwhelmed me, and I reached down to touch myself, too. Even in the depths of his pleasure, he saw. He never missed a thing.

"Use me, Sookie. Use _me_," Eric urged. I almost sobbed as he wrenched me up, looking around for a condom on the nightstand. I shook my head.

"Pill."

"I'm clean," he whispered.

"Me too. Just us."

"Thank fuck," he groaned as he slid me down onto him. We gasped together, each trying to catch up with the feeling. He brought his hand to my cheek and stroked my jaw, and I bent to kiss him, long and lingering and slow.

Before I knew it, we were moving. Small strokes at first that gave way to deep, arcing rolls. He grasped at my bottom lip with his teeth. I pulled back to ride him just as I imagined, fingering his tight, dark nipples, tugging at his hair.

"Give it to me," he breathed fervently, "I want everything you have." I couldn't hold off, releasing around him, elated.

There was no moment to recover. Eric instantly flipped me forward so that he was on top, seeking his pleasure in earnest, his eyes almost black with desire. I could tell by his shallow breaths that he was close. I could not stop touching the streak of paint on his hipbone—it grounded me, reminding me that this was _Eric_. When he finally came, his eyes were locked on mine, filled with amazement and longing and deep, satisfied relief. Compelling and beautiful.

He collapsed on top of me, and we lay still for a long while, waiting for our pulses to normalize. I pulled away from Eric to survey him, raising my eyebrows in mock scandal.

"The artist is _not_ presentable," I said, breaking the silence. He laughed long and loud and pulled me against him again, completely disregarding the mess. He picked his t-shirt off the floor.

"I have a feeling this is the only sex Morrissey is getting tonight," he remarked as he cleaned me off. I couldn't help giggling. He put the shirt down and we lapsed into silence again.

"That was some advanced stuff, by the way," I said.

"No shit," he nodded.

"I can't wait to see what you've got for next time."

His eyes glimmered. "Next time?"

"Hell yeah! You'll be lucky if I let you leave the house again."

"Good. I'm tired of ruining all my clothes trying to get you to notice me." I slapped his chest and laughed before settling into his embrace.

"Did you really do that?"

"What?"

"Ruin your clothes on purpose? …for me?"

"Well, not exactly. Only once. And it wasn't technically my clothes…" He streaked his thumb behind my right ear in punctuation. I understood immediately.

"Hmm… I've been meaning to ask you, actually—what was the name of your date last night?"

Eric shrugged. "I don't know. I forgot to make one up."

Though I knew I should have been cooler about it, the admission filled me with joy. I turned in his arms and kissed his neck, his ear, his jawline—everything I could reach.

"Damn," he exhaled after I stilled the onslaught, falling against the headboard. "If that's your reaction, I'll paint myself every freakin' day."

"I'll get on friendly terms with poison control."

While he laughed, his mood soon shifted. He looked at me quizzically. "Every day?" he asked quietly.

I grinned in affirmation. "Every freakin' day."

Eric reached toward me, then, warm and affectionate and strong, and took my hand in his, placing a gentle kiss on my lips. He pulled away again and gave my hand a small squeeze, bringing me back to that night on the beach.

"I'm going to hold you to that."


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: So it's happening—I wrote a new chapter! I intended the last one as a hot-nonsense one-off, but I really liked the idea of these two together, and they just kept kicking me in the head despite a jillion deadlines. Here is Eric's take on the same situation. I hope it's fun…_

**Chapter 2**

Sookie thought it started at the beach, but it didn't. Not for me, anyway. It began way earlier, which, frankly, freaked me out.

It wasn't a full-blown crush from the start—none of this at-first-sight bullshit. It crept up on me slowly, until one day I realized I just couldn't get her out of my head.

I'd always known Jason had a little sister. I had seen her several times at group hangouts. There was no doubt she was cute, but Jason was so damn protective of her it didn't seem worth pursuing. Besides, I never had a shortage of interested women; there was no need to go after one who came with complications.

Not to knock Jason. He is a good friend. Maybe even my best friend. I've known him since high school, and he helped me through a tough time when my dad died. Granted, we mostly sat in silence and drank beers, but it was more than I could say for most. He thought it was weird when I went to art school—didn't really 'get' it, he said—but he didn't judge. Always thought to include me in the old group's activities, even when I wasn't particularly interested.

On the day I officially met Sookie we were going paintballing. It was Friday night, and I was picking Jason up from work. The second he got in the car, he started talking about some new douchebag who kept hitting on Sookie. I couldn't blame him—I knew she was the only family he had left, and protecting her was his way of coping—but his whining about every guy who happened to look in her direction was such a common occurrence that I was starting to get bored.

When we stopped off at his place to grab some equipment and Sookie was there working on her computer, I was totally shocked that he actually left me alone with her.

"I gotta take a leak. Eric, you remember Sookie. Sook—this is Eric."

She looked up from her laptop in acknowledgment.

"Hey."

"What's up."

She focused back down on the screen. I was on alert—no flirting or Jason would cut my balls off. I was planning to stand in silence—stare at the floor or the doorjamb, anything but Sookie—when I noticed a familiar voice rattling out of her speakers: _I fell into a burning ring of fire_… I raised my eyebrows.

"Johnny Cash, huh?"

She squinted up at me mischievously.

"What was that tone?"

"No judgment, no judgment!" I raised my hands in mock-defense. "I love the Man in Black. I just wasn't sure you were the type."

"And what type is that?" she challenged.

A list of phrases filled my head. _Old-school, straightforward, sexy…_

"Rockabilly, I guess."

I saw her size me up.

"It's a playlist. For Fourth of July."

"Sending in the big guns, then. Party?"

"Radio station, actually," Sookie replied, shifting the laptop. The action drew my attention to her legs. It had left little red imprints on her thighs. Focus, Northman…

"Nice."

"Thanks. Internship turned DJ gig. I want to work up to program director, so I'm putting in my time." She turned back to the computer: she was clipping the intro to LCD Soundsystem's "North American Scum." Smart choice.

"They let you pick what you want? It's not just some corporate bullshit?"

"It's an indie station, so yeah, I do can do whatever. I wouldn't work there otherwise." She glanced up at me, giving me a little more focus. "So, what's Jason dragging everyone off to do today?"

"Uh, I think it's paintball. Kind of a waste if you ask me."

"Of time?"

"Of paint."

Sookie smirked, incredulous. "What are you, a painter?"

"Yeah. Exactly. I'm a painter." She looked a little taken aback.

"…houses?"

"Art, actually." I mimicked her phrasing, and enjoyed seeing her confidence waver a little. She recovered fast.

"Well, make sure to protect your face, pretty boy. Stackhouses play rough." I paused, trying to read her. Was Sookie teasing me? Or did she really see me as some pretty-boy artist?

She turned her attention back to the playlist—a woman's voice this time: _On the beach it's the 4th of July, I wanna wait for the fire to burn my eyes_.

As if on cue, Jason returned and cocked his arm to punch me in the stomach. I easily caught his hand and twisted it behind his back.

"I think I'll be ok."

She rolled her eyes, which kicked me into show-off mode.

"Oh, and I know you're probably burying it because you think it's obvious, but I'd place the Aoife O'Donovan song way earlier in the set. Independence Day's got enough white guys as it is, yeah?" If I'd surprised her, she barely showed it. A slow smile crept over her face.

I started to saunter out of the room like I'd just dropped the mic at a rap battle, but Jason pounced. I wound up staggering out the door with his forearms wrapped around my throat instead. Sookie was genuinely laughing; I couldn't keep the goofy grin off my face, either.

Jason and I beat the shit out of each other at paintball, although my team eventually lost. We all went out to a bar afterward. I was feeling good despite everything, and I couldn't quite place why. It only occurred to me later, as I was making out with a tattooed hottie from a few towns over, that it was the earlier exchange with Sookie. Her sharp eyes and easy smile just kept…returning.

I tried to push her out of my head, deciding my reaction must have been about curiosity. Sookie was smart, she had an interesting job (who listens to the fucking radio anymore?!), she was fun to talk to, and because of Jason, she was off-limits to me. All of those were shallow enough reasons for attraction, so I figured it would be easy for me to get over it. Perhaps I would have, if I hadn't heard her 4th of July set a couple days later.

Listening to her show was not part of my plan, but I was delivering some pieces to a gallery out of town and my iPod was dying. I flipped on the radio, and there was Sookie. My chest suddenly felt tight—a weird-ass reaction that I dismissed as over-caffeination.

The set was good. She didn't talk much; she kept things moving. Though I consider myself pretty well-versed in music, I didn't know a third of the songs she'd selected. Even so, it was enjoyable and accessible, if a little mean. She had somehow managed to skewer American culture while celebrating it. Something for everybody—the malcontents and the patriots.

After that, I started regularly tuning in for her scheduled hours. She had a noon to 3pm shift. I was usually in the studio during that time anyway, and it felt a little like having a friend to talk to at work. I told myself I listened for the music—Sookie's taste was similar to mine—but I would catch myself laughing a little too long at a joke she made, anticipating the next show with a little too much enthusiasm.

It got worse. Although I never consciously acknowledged it, I started looking for her at every event I turned up at over the next month. It made me happy just to know she was in the area, and when she wasn't, I found myself surprisingly disappointed. When I did see her—always in groups, always with friends—I was never sure what to do. Regularly following her show had put me in a crap position. It made me feel like we had more of a relationship than we did, that I knew her better than I should have. I either tried to ignore her or treat her like everyone else, which was pretty fucking hard since I had developed some kind of Sookie radar that overwhelmed everything else going on around me.

When I saw her at the beach that night at the bonfire—black bikini top and frayed denim shorts and warm, tan skin—something clicked. I couldn't pretend that I was only curious, or that I just liked her taste in music, or that I was mostly interested because I wasn't supposed to be.

She was hot. Painfully hot. Like put-the-collar-of-your-t-shirt-in-your-mouth-and-bite-down-to-control-yourself hot. Why hadn't I really noticed that before? I didn't stand a chance.

"So who's your favorite artist?"

No 'hello,' no 'how are you;' I just sat down and started talking. Really fucking smooth. But that's what Sookie did to me: she knocked me off my game. It bothered me and I liked it at the same time.

Her warm, incredulous eyes snapped to mine. She met me right where I was.

"What, are you trying to make me feel shitty? It's not going to work. I, like _most people in the world_, prefer paintball to fine art," she shot back.

I laughed. "I guess that's better for me, then. People can't really judge what I do." I tried again. "No, I meant _musical_ artist. You know—kazoos, banjos, etc.?" I over-exaggeratedly pretended to play the instruments—just dumb-shit nonsense to make her laugh. She smiled.

"Ah. That's something I know a little about. Not the terrible miming, but the music part." She paused and wrinkled her nose a little. "I guess I'd have to say Beck."

"Why the face? Beck's epic."

"Kind of mainstream, though, right? But he was the first person I heard that I actually _liked_. That I wasn't just listening to, but was actually _in to_—you know?" I wasn't totally sure, but I nodded anyway. "Plus, he looks like a little cherub."

"And you're into that, too?" I teased.

"Maybe," she said, eyes twinkling. She scanned my body pointedly. "I guess tiny men just do it for me." And _winked_.

Wait a second. Wait a motherfucking second. Was she…? Yes. There was no other way to interpret it. Sookie was flirting. Granted, it was _weird_ flirting, but she was definitely flirting. With _me_.

I grinned back at her. Tension crackled between us. Although I was tempted to flirt back, to just pour on the innuendo—and with anyone else, I would have—I let the conversation drop, and took a long pull from my beer. I decided Jason owed me some kind of friendship medal after that display of restraint.

My self-congratulation was so distracting I almost missed the instigating comment, but suddenly everything was happening at once. Some girl was calling Jason out on his irrational jealousy, and this muscly dickhead was planning to kiss Sookie on a dare, and all I could think was that it shouldn't be him, it should be _me_. And then we were kissing.

If seeing her that night had shifted my feelings, kissing her was like having an epiphany.

Though the kiss was soft and warm, though we were barely touching each other, my cock sprang instantly to life. I immediately wanted more. I wanted to pull her into my lap, stroke her hair, rock her against me, but I also wanted to see how she would respond if I were rougher, harder, more aggressive. In any other situation, I would have gone for either option, maybe both. But here? When the kiss was part-joke, surrounded by weirdos and her jealous-as-hell brother? No. I pulled away when I heard the catcalls and checked her face.

That was a mistake. She fucking sparkled.

I'm not sure how I had the strength to leave her alone, except that I knew I had already pushed Jason enough for the evening and didn't need to molest his sister any further in front of him. I ran off into the water to cool down. Some friends followed me in but I barely noticed, just letting the surf pound over me in the dark. How the fuck was I going to stay away from her now?

To my credit, I didn't pursue her. I'm a feminist, so I know _bros before hoes_ is a bullshit statement, but I did try to respect my friend's feelings. There were other women to hangout with. That didn't stop me from thinking about Sookie for one second, though.

Becoming roommates was another dumb decision if I really had any intention of staying away from her, which I honestly did. She had never indicated to me that she wanted more, and I genuinely intended to let the relationship stay exactly how it was. We both needed a roommate, and it seemed like a good fit because of our unconventional hours. Hell, Jason basically suggested it—told me I wasn't like 'those other assholes,' which made me feel both proud and terrible—so I figured I was in the clear there as long as I didn't do anything to fuck it up.

Sookie was a great roommate. Considerate, quiet, well-soundtracked. Interested in my art, despite her fronting. I tried not to think about how attractive she was every second of the day, but the longer I lived with her, the harder it got.

At first, my lifestyle stayed relatively the same, but the longer I lived with Sookie, the less I wanted to go out. The less I needed to. It wasn't that we were doing anything that fulfilled my desires directly; I just preferred being around her. If that meant eating cereal together at the table instead of groping someone else, I was surprisingly fine with it.

As my feelings started to change, so did my mindset. I had never felt strongly about a girl before, had never really wanted a serious relationship. I always assumed that people stayed together out of habit more than anything deeper, but now I was beginning to rethink the whole thing. Fantasizing about weird shit like taking her to the movies, eating dinner, going to concerts as well as fucking her against the wall, in the bathtub, on my car… It was new. Disturbing. Exciting.

Though it made me feel more than a little desperate, I looked forward to her daily clothing inspections—her scanning my body for paint when I went out. Watching her eyes trail over the length of me turned me the fuck on. Every time. I had started taking two showers a day just to keep it together. It's not that I felt invisible around her the rest of the time, but I craved more. I wanted hypervisibility. One time I even put paint on my neck intentionally so she would find it.

The next day changed everything. I came home from an art show early, and caught a glimpse of Sookie in her bedroom. I hadn't meant to see what she was doing, but it was kind of unmistakeable. She was touching herself. My breathing stopped. I think my heart stopped. And though I didn't want to embarrass or pressure or interrupt her, though I'd told myself I wouldn't initiate, that I would give Jason that one courtesy at least, I just lost it. My willpower was at zero. The words left my mouth before I could even think it through.

They weren't particularly smooth, but they were accurate.

"Sookie… I, I don't want you to stop."

I just intended to watch her. Not in a lurking, creeper way, but as an enthusiastic observer. I knew from experience that having someone watch me pleasure myself was extremely erotic, and I figured Sookie might have a similar point of view. I should have known, from my own experience with her, that I couldn't keep my shit together for more than ten minutes without changing the plan.

I had only fucked a girl with a vibrator a few times, and never, never on our first time, but it just felt right. And Sookie was so open and beautiful and goddamn sexy, I couldn't bring myself to _remember_ what I was supposed to do, let alone actually stop what I was doing to do it.

Watching her come undone was revelatory. Gorgeous. Fun. While I couldn't remember the last time I had wanted anyone so much, I was happy just to hold her, to laugh with her, to hear her voice. But when she admitted she wanted me—ever since that night on the beach—and indicated that she wasn't sure I wanted _her_… Well, there was nothing I'd ever wanted to prove more wrong in my life. Sookie was clawing at me, stroking my erection, taking me in her mouth—it damn near blew my brains apart.

And then we were together.

Niagara Falls? Desert lightning? Fireworks? Nothing compares. I have no words.

Unfuckingbelievable.

I don't really remember what happened afterward or what we said to each other. I tried to keep it light and comfortable, while the entire time my insides were melting down into a massive, gooey puddle. I'm pretty sure Sookie suggested she wanted to have sex again some time, but everything was kind of a blur. My brain was engaged in an endless caveman loop, screaming "WANT MORE, WANT MORE," and my heart was too busy exploding to focus.

Even though I didn't have a clear idea of what Sookie felt—if she wanted something casual or serious, if she even _liked_ me beyond the physical attraction—I was finally ready to admit to myself what had happened.

I had fallen for Sookie. Hard.

What the fuck was I going to tell Jason?


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: So Eric has basically hijacked this story now, to the point where I'm updating WAY earlier than I thought I would. I hope you don't mind…! xo_

**Chapter 3**

We dozed for an hour or two. Although I had never been much for spooning in the past, it felt amazingly good to just lie together. My concern about Jason had faded into the background, and I rested, totally in the moment, running my fingers through her golden hair.

Sookie had to work that night, covering someone else's late show. Around 5pm, she rolled out of bed, threw on some clothes, and kissed me soundly on the mouth.

"I'll be back around 1am."

I grinned. "I'll be here."

She started to leave, but turned back after a second and took me in, sprawled out in her bed.

"Hey Eric…"

"Yeah?"

"…thanks."

"Well, you know, it was a real burden…" I chuckled.

Although she knew I was kidding, her eyes narrowed. She pounced back onto the bed and punched me in the chest. Before she could pull her hand away, I caught it in mine and brought it to my mouth.

And Sookie smiled. God, her fucking smile! Beautiful and warm and _so her_. My heart clenched.

The second she walked out of the door, though, the earlier worry came back and settled in my stomach. I tried to calm down, but the uneasiness spread. With no plans for the evening, I stripped the sheets off her bed, threw them in the laundry, and called Pam.

I met Pam my first year at art school in Spatial Dynamics class. Although she was in the architecture BFA and I was in painting, we all had to take the same foundation courses. She was stylish, sarcastic, easy to be around—we became friends the first week. Pam helped me with any project that had a lot of math calculations (not my strong suit), and I gave her feedback on anything that was less precise and more creative (not her strong suit). We hung out the entire four years we were at school. Even when I moved back to start my art practice, we stayed fairly close.

She was Jason's only contender for "best friend" in my book, though they could not have been more different. Jason was loud, and Pam was subtle. Where Jason was fun-loving and impulsive, Pam was smart and calculating. Jason trusted people he cared about implicitly while Pam was wary. They had one thing in common, though: they both loved girls.

She picked up on the second ring.

"How's it going, player?"

I grinned and instantly relaxed.

"Hey. Shit's going _down_."

"Spill."

I caught her up to speed as best I could. She had heard an earful about Jason, but she barely knew anything about Sookie—the last time I talked to Pam I was still in my outward-denial phase.

I finished my piece. There was a long pause.

"So, let me recap. You fucked your hot, smart, indie DJ roommate. Best sex of your life—which I want copious details on later when you're in a better mood…" I smiled despite myself. "And you're into her. Like, _really _into her; I can hear it in your voice. The problem is what, exactly?"

"Jason. Obviously."

"So? He knows you live with Sookie. I'm sure he knows what you're like with girls."

I exhaled sharply, exasperated. "It's not like that, Pam. What I feel about Sookie is…different. I keep thinking about _more_ with her. And I can't do that if Jason's not ok with it. He's batshit-insane jealous about anyone who even looks at his sister. He _trusts_ me. He's my best friend."

"Oh, _best friend_ now, huh?" she chided.

"You know what I mean. I owe him better than this. We're close."

"Uh huh. So close you can't tell him how you feel." I shook my head. Pam did not get what was at stake. "Look, this is simple. You're into Sookie and you want to be with her, but you can't progress the relationship until you tell Jason. So you tell Jason. Done."

"And he breaks my jaw and castrates me, and Sookie thinks I chose her brother over her, and then she kicks me out. Suddenly I'm sleeping on canvasses in the studio, eating soggy cheerios because I can't swallow solid food, drinking myself to sleep every night."

"…that was a dark spiral."

"Well, you see where I'm at."

"Then get out of it! This isn't you. You're Eric Northman. Laidback. Confident. In control."

"Uh, thanks. But I don't feel in control. I don't even know where to _start_ controlling."

"It's not the ebola outbreak in Africa."

"I know that, damnit."

Pam sighed.

"Well… I guess you could talk it over with Sookie first. Ask her what she thinks about the whole thing. But it seems like your problem isn't with her—it's with her brother." I considered this; she was probably right. It _would_ be strange to have a conversation with Sookie about her brother's feelings before we'd even discussed _hers_. And I felt like I needed to talk to Jason before I could ask Sookie how she felt. It was a dumb, low-stakes catch-22.

"I think you're making too much out of this."

"You don't know him, Pam."

"But I know _you_, and this is _your _problem. You can do it."

"I don't wanna!" I groaned.

"Shut up, quit whining, and tell Jason. Now, are you going to ask me about _my_ love life, or am I going to have to call one of my other, numerous _best friends_?"

We talked about other stuff for a while—she got me laughing about some hot new intern at her architecture firm—which was a nice distraction. At the end of the call, she made me agree to tell Jason about what happened straight away, before things with Sookie "got weird." When I hung up, though, I didn't really feel any more settled.

I switched over the laundry, and when it finished, I made Sookie's bed. Stalling tactics, really. An excuse to hang out in her room, too. I picked up the phone to call Jason several times, but I couldn't bring myself to dial. I decided that I would just play it by ear. When Sookie came home, maybe I'd have a stroke of clarity.

A little after 1am, I heard the doorknob turn. Where I'd hoped for a bolt of enlightenment, I was hit with a staggering wave of panic.

Instead of doing anything that made sense, I started down the "weird" path—I leaped off the couch, scrambled to my room, wedged myself under the covers, and pretended to be asleep.

Lying in the dark, trying to breathe evenly, I felt like a total jackass. Like the last kid to fall asleep at a slumber party. Even though I had basically guaranteed she wouldn't, I held out hope that Sookie might burst into the room, slap me awake, and kiss me anyway. The door to my bedroom cracked open just a fraction. I held my breath for an eternity. It closed again. I heard Sookie's footsteps receding down the hall.

My heart ached. Although I ran through a bunch of scenarios where I pretended to wake up and hang out with her, I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I lay awake half the night.

Then I let things get weirder.

The next morning I parked it at the kitchen table at 6:30am, a good two hours before I was normally even awake. I didn't know what else to do. I just sat there, like an asshole, checking my phone, waiting for Sookie.

She came down to breakfast around 9am, wearing an oversized t-shirt and boxer shorts. It could've been a potato sack for all I cared—she looked impossibly gorgeous.

Sookie paused cautiously in the doorway—I had left her high and dry the night before, after all. She seemed to be taking cues from me, which was a really bad idea considering my current state. Normally I prided myself on my straightforwardness, but my lifetime supply seemed to have evaporated.

"Wuddup, girrrrl." The phrase echoed in my head. It sounded bizarre to me, and probably even weirder to her. She looked at me quizzically.

"Um, hey, duuuude." She pulled out a chair and sat down.

I shoved the box of cereal over to her, pretending to read the news for the fiftieth time that morning. She poured a bowl. We sat in silence for a while. Once I cleared my throat to say something, but nothing came out.

"So… are you working today?" Sookie ventured, glancing at me casually.

"Yep. That's me. Ol' workin' stiff Northman." What the fuck was I even saying?! Despite myself, I laughed. A long, crazed weirdo laugh. Her eyebrows shot up in confused amusement.

"Well, a few of us are going out for drinks tonight around 9. Bill's thanking me for filling in yesterday. Call me if you want to join."

"Cool. Yeah, I'll let you know."

Sookie nodded. We let the conversation drop again.

The awkwardness smothered me. _Like it never happened _was the phrase that kept running through my head. I was acting like it never happened! Of all the dumb fucking things! That one sex act had meant more to me than any I'd experienced before combined, and yet here I was trying—and failing—to pretend that everything was normal.

I had to get out of the house.

"Well, I'm heading out. I've got a design consultation this morning."

"Where?"

"An accounting firm." It was a decent lie—the first thing I said all morning that didn't sound immediately insane.

"And you're wearing _that_?" she asked, incredulous. I glanced down at my attire. While I wasn't known for my impeccable wardrobe, this was bad even for me. I was barefoot in torn jeans and a paint-spattered tank top.

"…I'm going to put on shoes."

Sookie didn't buy it for a second—in fact, she looked like she was going to burst out laughing—but she let me off the hook anyway.

"Ok then, working stiff." My heart flipped over. I rose to leave.

As I crossed behind her chair, she reached over and grabbed my arm. I almost passed out on the spot. She picked up one of my sharpies and uncapped it.

"You know, I'm not sure you have my number," she said with just the hint of a smile, scribbling it in a huge black scrawl across my forearm.

Of _course_ I had her number. We were fucking roommates. I had just called her the week before when I locked myself out of the house. She was messing with me, implicitly calling my bluff, daring me to say something. God, she was amazing.

When she brushed her thumb over the vein at my pulse point, I lost it. All of my intentions and worries faded away. Only Sookie was left.

"Fantastic," I muttered, reaching down and cupping her face, threading my fingers through her hair, crushing her lips to mine. While a little surprised at first, she soon met me with everything I ever wanted: humor, fire, generosity. We kissed for a long moment. Fighting the urge to pull her up onto me and run her to the bedroom, I backed away with a groan.

"Fuck. Now I've _really_ got to go!"

"Whatever you say…" she laughed, a little dazed. I bolted out of the kitchen. "Unpresentable, by the way!" she yelled as I shot out the door. Another wild, breathless laugh tore out of my chest.

I slammed the door behind me, gasping for air, grinning like a madman. It seemed that despite all the epic fails of the last eight hours, Sookie didn't hate me! Sweet, sweet victory. I was so relieved it took me two and a half blocks to realize I still wasn't wearing any shoes; I laughed so hard I almost cried. Sookie had totally and completely fucked me up.

The kiss had the weird effect of galvanizing me, reminding me what was at stake. I knew the feeling probably wouldn't last, so I called Jason immediately. He didn't pick up. I left a message about meeting at Merlotte's after work—if I survived the hangout, I would still have time to make it to whatever Sookie was doing.

He texted back—7pm confirmed. Now I just had to wait. Sookie's number glared up at me from my forearm. Wait, and put on a long-sleeved shirt.

Jason showed up right on time. Though there was some initial weirdness, we settled into friendly conversation after we ordered. Soon we were eating burgers, making fun of the latest movies, just shooting the shit. While I was determined to tell Jason about what happened with Sookie when we started, the longer we sat, the harder it got. I just couldn't find a way to work it into the conversation. What was I supposed to say: "Mark Wahlberg should've been better than Shia LaBeouf but he wasn't? That makes sense. Oh, by the way, guess who slept with your sister last night?!" There was no appropriate segue way.

We were just finishing dinner when Sookie walked into the bar with a group of friends. Mostly male friends. Shit. I checked my watch—it was well before 9pm. They must have started early.

I recognized two out of the group—one was Lafayette, Sookie's recording engineer friend, and the other was her co-worker Bill. He was relatively handsome, wearing a Joy Division t-shirt and aviator glasses. Good taste in music but kind of douchey… I didn't feel threatened, exactly, but I didn't like him either. Jason was already eyeing the guys like he wanted them to drop dead.

"Hey Sook!" Jason called loudly, waving his arms overhead like an air traffic controller. "Come sit with us!" It was clear he was only referring to Sookie. As she approached the table, I tried to slow my pulse down. Jason would definitely know something was up if my heart suddenly burst out of my chest…

"Hey bro." Sookie barely glanced at me. "Eric."

I nodded slightly. Maybe she knew what I was doing there, maybe she didn't. Whatever the case, she played it cool. I silently thanked her.

She addressed Jason's unspoken anxiety. "We're just having some beers, Jason. Nothing to have a shit-fit over."

"Shit-fit! Who's having a shit-fit? Never felt calmer in my life!" Sookie and I almost exchanged glances—it was clear Jason was riled up. "I was thinking of _you_. I know how much you love…" He looked around the table desperately. "…cold French fries," he finished, stirring the half-eaten pile around on his plate.

"Real tempting…" Sookie smiled as she walked away. "If they're still there in a few hours, I'll come back for them."

"Are you calling me fat?!" Jason called after her, but she didn't react. He watched her return to the group, a worried expression on his face. I stared straight ahead. Do NOT look at her ass, Northman, you fucker…

"I don't know about those guys," Jason grumbled.

"They're just her coworkers. I don't think she's interested in any of them."

His eyes snapped to mine, suddenly on the offensive. "How would _you_ know?"

"I'm her roommate! I would have seen them around the house."

"Hmm… Do you think she's into that muscly one with the head scarf?"

I glanced over at the group. Lafayette was animatedly telling a story, and Sookie was doubled over with laughter.

"I'm pretty sure he's not her type. And vice versa," I smiled. The light always dawned a little slower on Jason.

"Oh. Gotcha."

We tried to ignore the group and get back to our own conversation, but it was difficult—me just knowing she was in the room, and Jason jealous as the day is long. There was no way I could tell him now, so I headed to the bar to buy us one more for the road. I tried to keep my eyes to myself, but they kept returning to Sookie. She and Bill were playing pool off to the side, and her other friends were huddled around a pair of pinball machines.

It was sheer happenstance that I was watching when Bill touched her. It wasn't much; just a little caress down her back as she set up a shot, but it set my teeth on edge. Granted, he was a little worse for the wear—he'd been pounding beers for an hour now—but I was in no mood to be forgiving. Sookie shrugged out from under his hand and tried to keep playing. I'll admit it would have bothered me even if Sookie hadn't minded the touch, but it clearly annoyed her. I was bristling. The bartender returned with the beers, but I didn't even notice.

Then he grabbed her ass. She moved away again, upset this time, and said something I couldn't quite make out over her shoulder. Whether he heard her or not, Bill didn't seem to be getting the message. Instead, he locked his hands around her hips, and tried to pull her into him.

Something inside me snapped.

Now, I am not a fighter. At all. Outside of roughhousing with friends, I'm known for being almost passively gentle. When you are as large as I am, you have to be low-key or else people straight-up freak out around you. That, and I don't believe in the culture that male-on-male fighting is usually a part of. Over the years, various guys have made fun of me for it. But being called gay isn't really an insult if you don't believe alternative sexualities are wrong…

In my opinion, men who fight over women are the worst—basically uncritical assholes who've bought into the idea that it's normal for guys to act like Neanderthals whenever they feel their claim on a girl is threatened. As though a woman isn't a real person who can make her own choices, despite who 'wins.' More than once, I had walked out with the contested 'property' as the two guys duked it out. I firmly believed that aggression never paid.

But watching that dick grab Sookie, coupled with the disgusted look on her face when he did—well, it turns out that 'seeing red' is an actual thing. I wanted to take the guy apart.

Several tables away, Jason was reacting in his own irrational moment. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him stand hastily, readying to punch the guy in the teeth. But I was closer. In three long strides, I reached them and grabbed Bill off her. I easily spun him around and slammed his back into the wall. It didn't hurt him, but he was startled.

"Ask her permission before you touch her next time, asshole," I said softly but aggressively into his face.

He recovered himself for a second. "Or what?"

"Or I'll fucking kill you," I finished calmly. I had no idea where it came from; I'd never said anything like that to anyone in my life. The scary part was that I actually _meant_ it.

If I shocked myself, I terrified Bill. He stared up at me for a couple seconds before nodding curtly.

"_Get. Permission_." I shoved his body into the wall with each word for emphasis before letting him go.

As I turned my back, I felt wired—adrenaline is a motherfucker. I looked around for Sookie and found her a few feet away, gazing at me with dumbfounded bemusement. Without even thinking, I reached out my hand toward her.

Suddenly I found myself face-to-face with another Stackhouse.

Jason. was. mad. Flames seemed to shoot off his silhouette. Although he was a full head shorter than me, he actually looked frightening. I was momentarily confused—the situation with Bill was over. Why was he so upset?

Then it hit me.

Jason knew. I wasn't sure how, but he _knew_. And he was PISSED.

"You son of a bitch!" he bellowed, slammed his fist into my gut, and tackled me to the floor.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: _The adventures __continue, __this time updating Sookie's view since The Afternoon. ;)_ _Thank you for all your feedback—you teach me so much. Let me know if you're still having fun__…_ xo

**Chapter 4**

It was late afternoon, and I was just dressing. I hauled on my clothes and combat boots while a naked Eric gazed up at me from my bed, following every move. I stared back: taut body, cool blue eyes, calm, sexy smirk… Something about it felt unreal, but there we were. As if we did this all the time.

I turned to leave. "You better be here when I get back."

"Where else would I go?" he answered, lazy and smooth.

I drove to work keyed-up. Lafayette, the station's sound engineer, was outside smoking when I got in.

"Hey, Sook."

"What's up?" I tried to hurry past, but he stopped me, a curious look on his face.

"Hold up a minute. Something different 'bout you today."

I played it cool. "I'm not wearing eyeliner?"

"Nah, it's something around the mouth region." He quirked a finger toward my lips. I couldn't stop the smile from breaking through. "Damn! I think girlfriend got some last night!"

Right action, wrong time frame.

"Guess again."

"Hmm…" He eyed me mischievously. "I'm gonna work on it…"

Bill was playing out of town that night, and I was covering his 8pm-12am electro-ambient show. He had left me a playlist, but I was planning a Detroit-themed set: The Paybacks, The Detroit Cobras, trash rock, underground, garage punk—something to really mess with the regulars. When I got into the office, though, the promotions manager had a stack of changes she wanted me to make to the website. By the time I got back to my own prep, there wasn't enough time to finish designing a decent show.

I knew what I had to do, but I didn't like it. I had to play Bill's set by rote. It was a decent playlist, but not playing my own stuff made me feel like a poseur. And when Bill found out I played his music, he'd probably take it as a compliment that wasn't intended.

As soon as I started the show, my mind drifted. Bill and I had gone out a few times, and although I thought he was a decent guy, something about it never felt quite right. I had told him before that I didn't want a relationship, so when he offered to take me out for drinks the next night as a thank you, I had said yes, knowing it wouldn't be a date. The prospect still made me uncomfortable, though. I wondered if Eric would come with me if I asked him…

Eric.

My mind filled with beautiful, obscene flashes from the afternoon. I couldn't wait to get home to test my memory, to see if his face was as beautiful as I remembered when he came. I blushed at the thought, glad radio was an audio medium.

The shift dragged by. Four hours of electro-ambient is tiring no matter how good it is. On the drive back, I cranked up the Demolition Doll Rods as an antidote and sang along: _Never gonna know what this life is gonna bring ya. Yeah, you know, you know you got it in ya. Keep your mind open and feel the course you're on. Yeah, you're good to go, so let's get it on._ It pumped me up, and I burst into the apartment, excited.

Everything was pitch black. Disappointing, though I tried to reason myself out of feeling badly. It was late, after all. Maybe it was better that Eric wasn't sitting up waiting for sex. Maybe it demonstrated respect or consideration somehow. All the same, a wave of panic rushed through me. Maybe the afternoon hadn't meant as much to him as it had to me… I tried not to dwell on the thought.

I checked my room. He wasn't in it, but he had changed the sheets and made the bed. I smiled. That showed care. I tiptoed down the hall, and cracked open his door. There was his gigantic form, huddled under the blankets, asleep. My heart calmed instantly. We could talk about everything in the morning.

As I got ready for bed, I thought about the next day. I decided I would ask Eric out to drinks with Bill. It wasn't much of a gesture, but it would keep Bill from having one-on-one time with me, and show Eric I wanted to include him in my outside life. I drifted to sleep, the lyrics to "Get It On" still playing in my head.

Eric's behavior the next morning surprised me. Instead of the low-key, confident roommate I'd come to know, I got a high-strung livewire. He could barely get a sentence out. It tickled me, but I couldn't put my finger on why it was happening. Did I mean more to Eric than he was letting on…?

Feeling amused and in control for once, I invited him to drinks, teasing him about his behavior. Just when I thought he was going to make a run for the door, he recovered himself and kissed me, strong and firm and masculine. The action dazed me so badly it took a full twenty minutes after he left to find the strength to get up from the table.

Though I wasn't working, I showed up at the station around 7pm. Bill and I were supposed to meet at 9:00, and I wanted plenty of time to get a group together before then. If Eric was busy, I wanted the extra company.

Jessica, the office coordinator, and Lafayette were getting off their shift. They had just agreed to come out with me when Bill called, wanting to meet earlier for dinner. I brightly agreed to Merlotte's at 7:45, deliberately forgetting to mention the number of people who would be joining us. We piled into my car and headed out.

Lafayette's boyfriend Jesus and his skinny, cheerful friend from the hospital met us outside.

"I can't stay too late," Jesus apologized. "David and I are having a jam session tonight."

"And I am the number one groupie," Lafayette winked.

"No worries. I don't think this'll be too long. What kind of music do you guys play?"

Jesus shrugged. "Anything, everything. We print tabs off the internet and see if anything sticks—nothing serious."

"You wanna join?" David offered. "Seriously, the more the merrier."

Bill arrived, aviator glasses on and ear buds in—a kind of calculated cool done on purpose. He affably shook hands with David—the one person he hadn't met—though I could tell he was taken aback by the size of the group.

"Hey Sookie," he bent to kiss me on the cheek. The gesture weirded me out. Lafayette noticed and gave me an eyebrow. "What's going on?"

"Oh, we're just organizing a little post-drinks jam session," Jesus explained. "Sookie, you in?"

"I can play a little keyboard if you've got one…" David nodded vigorously.

Bill was not to be outdone. "I don't mean to brag, but I'm a pretty sick bassist."

"Sure! We're up to 4 now. How about you, Jessica?"

"Um, if you count pre-teen experience—"

"Y'all know we count pre-teen experience…" Lafayette quipped. Jesus just rolled his eyes.

"—I've had a whopping 4 years of violin."

"That's fucking AWESOME. We've never had an orchestra instrument in the mix!" David looked genuinely excited. I decided I liked him very much.

Jessica seemed a little nervous at the prospect. "You don't really have a violin at your house, right? I haven't even picked one up in a couple years."

"David's dad is an instrument collector," Jesus grinned. "I'll bet he has a freakin' harpsichord in the basement."

"Fine. But I will not be held responsible for any eardrums I destroy."

"Um, we're nurses—we've got an in at the hospital," he teased. "And now," he gestured dramatically toward the entrance, "to the bar!"

"Not too much, though, or it will fuck with our sound…" David cautioned seriously. We just laughed.

The moment we stepped inside, everything stopped. My breath caught in my chest, and I completely lost my train of thought. Eric was there. He'd changed since the morning, and he looked impeccable—white t-shirt, dark jeans, black leather jacket. He compelled me; I had to physically stop myself from running over and rubbing myself against him like a cat.

That's when I noticed he was huddled in a booth with Jason. It all fell into place. His weird behavior over breakfast, his hesitance to come out for drinks… It was out of loyalty to my crazy brother.

Jessica noticed my stillness. "Hey—is something wrong?" The question jumpstarted my brain.

"No! Everything's fine." Jason had noticed me and started waving wildly in my direction. "Oh god… I just have to go talk to my brother for a minute."

Jessica unabashedly ogled the table. "_That's_ your brother?"

"Well, the shorter one waving his arms like a jackass."

"Oh. Well, he's totally cute, too!"

"Don't start…"

I approached them, unsure of how to interact. I tried to make a few jokes, but they were both behaving bizarrely—Eric acting like we'd barely met, and Jason busy eyeballing the group of guys. Though I wanted to ask Eric to join us, it didn't seem like the right moment. I headed back to the group as soon as I could.

We were a few beers in, watching Jesus and Lafayette's epic pinball battle, when Bill asked for a game of pool. I figured I owed him a little attention since I had basically stolen his evening. We played in amiable silence for a while.

"So… I caught the end of your show last night," he smirked, stretching across the table and sinking a shot.

"You must have had an early evening."

He shrugged in a noncommittal way.

"I noticed you were playing my list." He took a long pull from his beer, gazing at me steadily. "Seems like you're coming around to my style after all."

"Well, don't get cocky. I had something…unexpected come up in the afternoon." Bill missed his shot, but didn't seem to care.

"Whatever you need to tell yourself," he smiled, walking over to stand directly behind me.

"Trust me—it was going to be kickass Detroit girl rock. I just didn't have time to finish the set." I tried to set up a shot, but he leaned in a little too close behind me. Uncomfortable, I relocated. "I wish you'd heard it. It would have been a good education for you."

"Mmm," he said, following me to the new location, suggestively trailing his hand down my back. I tried to shrug away, but he would not be deterred. "Want to give me a private version?" he whispered as his hand found my ass.

I stepped away forcefully. "I'll burn you the CD."

For whatever reason—too much beer, too little respect—Bill did not seem to be getting the picture.

"Why don't we go to my car right now," he pulled me back against him. "You can educate me on whatever you want." The double entendre was so bad I would have laughed if I hadn't been so annoyed. I turned around to give him a piece of my mind when I realized I didn't have to.

Eric appeared out of nowhere, arms locked around Bill's shoulders, pushing him into the wall. I had always been one to fight my own battles, but watching Eric move, listening to his gruff voice, hearing the words "Get permission" growled like a fucking threat… All of it was turning me on more than I cared to admit. Looking at the two of them together, I was stunned I had ever found Bill attractive.

When Eric turned back around, eyes blazing, fingers outstretched toward me, it felt like a damn fairytale. I was on the verge of running to him and throwing myself into his arms when Jason arrived on the scene and delivered a crushing gut punch. To Eric, of all people.

Eric went down hard, probably because he thought he deserved it, merely putting up his hands to protect his face as Jason smacked at him. If the situation hadn't involved two people I cared about, it would have been sheer comedy.

While Jason's behavior was stupid, I knew it came from a good place. He had an overdeveloped sense of male pride, and when our last living relative passed away, it got worse. I became the one shining symbol of Family for him, and he couldn't bear to see anything even remotely threatening happen near me. That included the attention of men he thought were questionable.

His actions would have made more sense if he was attacking Bill, but he wasn't. Jason was fighting Eric, which meant he must have known we were interested in each other and disapproved for some reason… Was it possible that he considered _Eric_ questionable? The notion incensed me.

By this point, everyone had noticed the fight, and Lafayette and Jesus moved to intervene. There was no need; I put a stop to it myself.

"Jason Stackhouse, get off him this instant." The bar fell silent. Eric, who was forcibly restraining Jason at that point, dropped his hands. Jason rolled off with a sheepish expression.

"Outside. NOW."

Still slumped against the wall, Bill looked up hopefully as though I was speaking to him. Both Jason and I turned toward him and shouted some version of "Not you, asshole!"

Lafayette took a hold of Bill's arm and led him away from us. "Come on. Let's get you out before we get _thrown_ out."

"We'll be right back, Eric," I called over my shoulder, pushing Jason through the back exit. The moment we got outside I rounded on him.

"What the hell is your problem?" He seemed a little taken aback, before he remembered his anger.

"You and Eric!"

"What about me and Eric?!"

"You and Eric… you know, _together_!" The way he said it made me feel flustered, and assigning a relationship status was sooo not the point.

"Ok fine. Let's just say for argument's sake that is correct. What would be so bad about that?!" He didn't continue. "Look. I know you want to protect me. But in order to protect, I have to be in danger!" Jason stared at me blankly. I tried a different tactic. "Is Eric dangerous?"

"No!"

"Are you worried he's going to hurt me? Cheat on me?"

"He better fuckin' not! But, no, I'm not worried about that."

I sighed. "I like Eric, and I think he likes me. He's a good person." Jason waited a beat before nodding stiffly. "So. What. is. the. problem?!"

He mumbled something under his breath that I didn't catch.

"Jason…"

"He didn't tell me!" he finally shouted.

"What?"

"He didn't…tell me he liked you."

"I don't believe this. So now guys need your permission in order to _like _me?"

"This isn't about you, ok?! Well, it isn't _not_ about you… Eric is…" Jason struggled for words. "He just…should have said something."

I was starting to get the picture. In this situation, Jason felt more betrayed by Eric than protective of me.

"Well, regardless, you're acting like a crazy person. Jumping your best friend in a bar? Gran would be ashamed."

"Yeah…" I could tell Jason felt bad. I tried to soften my tone a little.

"Could you just…ease up a little? Eric and I… we've barely started. I can mess things up just fine on my own; I don't need you adding to it."

He smiled a little. The mood lightened.

"By the way, how did you figure out something was going on between us if Eric didn't tell you?"

"Come on, Sookie. I know you two. I've never seen Eric fight someone over a girl like that. And you! You just stood there looking at him, smiling, while he was defending you. You _hate_ that shit. Believe me—I know."

"If you know us so well, you should stop being a jackass."

"No promises," he grumbled. I gave him my best no-bullshit stare. It worked.

"All right." he sighed, turning back toward the door. "I'll go talk to Eric. If he's lucky, he may even get the ol' big brother blessing_…_"

"Shut up," I dismissed through my grin as I followed him inside. He turned back to me for a second, a weird look on his face.

"Just don't do anything in front of me. Like, ever." I responded by punching him lightly in the gut, leaving him to recover both his stomach and friendship. He walked slowly toward Eric, and I returned to the group.

All four of them were staring at me, waiting for an explanation. Jessica was first to speak. "We got Bill into a cab. What the fuck happened?!"

"Oh, nothing major. Just your typical roommate/brother/co-worker fight."

"Oh right; one of _those_," Jesus interjected wryly.

Jessica pressed ahead. "So, were you guys, like, going out?"

"Who?"

"What do you mean, who? You and Bill!"

"No! That's why I was so pissed that he kept acting like my boyfriend tonight. Plus, he grabbed my ass."

"That dick! So why did your brother punch that hot blond guy who stood up for you? I don't get it."

"That hot blond guy is her sexy-ass roommate," Lafayette cut in, turning to me suspiciously. "Anything else you want to tell us, Sook?" I made no attempts to explain.

"Well, it looks like they're getting along now." I followed Jessica's gaze. Eric and Jason were engaged in a bro hug.

"So it seems…" I tried to throw focus off the situation, turning to David who looked particularly forlorn. "What happened to you?"

"I'm guessing the jam session's off."

"Why?"

"You're still in the mood to play after that?"

"Yeah! Isn't turmoil supposed to charge the creative process?"

Eric walked up to the group. He didn't seem to take anyone else in—just me. "Hi," he said, with a heart-stopping smile.

"Hi." I stared at him for a long moment. Lafayette cleared his throat, bringing me back to the present.

"Oh sorry. Eric, um, this is Jessica, Lafayette's boyfriend Jesus, and his friend David. You already know Lafayette." My heart was thudding out of my chest. "Everyone, this is my…roommate, Eric."

"Hey."

"'sup." There was an awkward pause.

"Thanks for sticking up for Sookie." Lafayette looked over his shoulder for Jason who seemed to have taken off. "No good deed goes unpunished."

"Yeah, sorry about that. I'm not usually one for drama."

"No big deal," Jesus covered kindly. "Sookie was just saying weirdness makes for better art. We're going to David's to play music; shall we test out the theory?"

"But now we're down a bass player," David said.

A strange expression crept over Eric's face. "Not necessarily…"

"Um, it's nice that you're so forgiving, but Bill was a dick tonight. No one wants him around," Jessica interjected. "Besides, he's already gone."

"No, I meant _I _can sit in with you guys."

I looked at him in disbelief.

"You play bass?"

"Yes."

"My roommate—Eric Northman—plays bass."

"Yeah. I used to play with an experimental band in art school." I just stared at him. That had to be the hottest sentence I'd ever heard. He looked a little defensive. "What?! We weren't the _greatest_, but—"

I cut him off. Forgetting everything that had happened and everyone we were around, I walked up to him, wrapped my arms around his neck, and kissed him hard on the mouth. When we broke away, his eyes were amused, wary, and blazing hot—my favorite Eric combination.

Lafayette broke the silence with a low whistle. "It's all becoming bright as the motherfuckin' sun…" Jesus couldn't keep from snickering, though he had the decency to cover it with a cough. Jessica and David were feigning nonchalance.

I looked around awkwardly, embarrassed, but Eric's eyes twinkled.

"So… Now that the session's back on, we have to go home and get Sookie's…" He looked at me for a clue. "…guitar."

"Sookie don't play guitar," Lafayette remarked, eyebrow up.

"Well then," I started, picking up the train of thought, "we've got to get Eric's bass."

"There's two at the house!" David cut in. Eric and I stared at each other, trying to find a plausible excuse to leave.

Jessica caught on. "Dobro, then. Theremin." David still didn't seem to get it. "Whatever the fuck you don't already have, that's what they're _going to go get_," she finished meaningfully.

"Oh." The light bulb finally flickered on. "Ok then. We'll, uh, I guess we'll just…get started without you."

"Mhm. I think they might be starting a little session of their own…" Lafayette smirked. The group burst out in stifled laughter. I couldn't wipe the smile off my face, but I flipped them off anyway. Eric pointed to my gesture and grinned.

"What she said." We walked out amid a rush of catcalls into the cool night air.

Once we were alone, I felt giddy and suddenly shy. The quiet was disorienting. I turned to face Eric, his profile glowing softly in the moonlight.

"So…" He draped one arm around my shoulders, sexy and possessive. The gesture put me at ease.

"So."

"Well, we know what they _think_ we're going to do. Did you want to talk or—" I shut him up again with a rough kiss. His hands twined themselves in my hair, rocking me against him.

"I want to take you home and rip that t-shirt in half," I whispered. Eric practically growled at the suggestion, gripping my hips a little tighter. "What about you?"

"What she said," he repeated, eyes dark, breath unsteady. I grinned and led him by the hand toward my car.


End file.
